


I Will Read Ashes For You

by Vortaesthetic



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dark Six, M/M, Point of no return
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vortaesthetic/pseuds/Vortaesthetic
Summary: Keevan draws Weyoun 6 back into the fray. Revenge is the main event tonight.





	I Will Read Ashes For You

Weyoun was being followed. This he knew for a fact.

Odo often called him paranoid, but Odo failed to fully grasp the truth of the matter--his paranoia is the only reason that he's survived this long. He has been active for two months now, and even after a month of life in the relative safety of Deep Space Nine, he continues to flinch at every shadow and turn his back to no one. Part of this is because he still could meet with a knife to the back. Part of this is also because this is the only way of life that Weyoun Six has ever known and he did not know how to stop.

Stopping is not an option today. He walks toward the promenade at a brisk pace, careful not to stir any undue attention. He needed the safety of a public place, of hundreds of watching eyes. He was not built for battle; he was slight of build and weak. Safety in numbers would be his best defense.

He tries to suppress the panic that threatens to boil over when his combadge is unresponsive to his subtle clicks. Something is jamming his signal. Whoever is following him, they don't want him calling for help. Clever.

He takes a sudden, sharp turn around he corner and bolts for a Jefferies Tube. He has no idea where it goes, but he prays that it can get him away from his attacker. He seals the door behind him and steels his nerves as he crawls through the small tunnel. The closeness of the tube is disturbing, but fear is a luxury that he cannot afford right now. All he has right now was time, and an unknown amount at that-- so he has to use it wisely.

He emerges in the service hallway beneath the promenade, where he can access the upper deck by stairwell. He is alone in the hallway at present, so he takes his lead and rushes up the stairs as fast as he can. Quark's was very close. Almost to safety...

It feels almost anticlimactic when he bursts through the door and all is normal on the other side.

There must have been fifty people in here tonight, a diverse mix of Starfleet officers and merchant traders, Bajorans and Klingon warriors mingling on the multiple levels of the bar. The dabo wheels were in full swing and the Ferengi waiters were moving at a blazing pace, slinging glasses, and plates around with practiced skill. Weyoun descended to the bar where he could be in full view of Quark and whatever senior staff may be present. It was unlikely that anyone would make a move on him there in such important company.

"Well hello," Quark drawled with a sharp-toothed smile as Weyoun took a seat at the bar. "What a surprise to see you here. You know, I didn't take you for much of a drinker."

"I'm not," Weyoun said simply, more intent on scanning his surroundings than making small-talk with the bartender. "But I'm here right now. I'll take a synthale."

Quark immediately obliges without further comment, accepting a slip of latinum as payment for the drink. Weyoun simply worries the glass in his shaking hands, his ears at full attention listening for the sound of danger. For a second, he swears he hears the familiar sucking sound of a Ketracel delivery device, in turning he finds that it's only the sound of a human sucking on a straw, their milkshake now gone.

He sips at his drink, unable to taste it, but trying to keep from looking out of place.

Suddenly, a great crash breaks out behind him, the sound of a table being smashed into pieces by the bulk of a Klingon man. He rolls to his feet, slinging a chair at his assailant and the battle is on, the crowd surging away from the mutual combatants and slamming into the bar, crowding the Vorta against the counter. Threats were shouted back and forth in harsh, guttural Klingon as the circled each other, slamming into each other and attempting to throw them to the ground.

Weyoun feels a pinch at his neck and goes cold, realizing that he has made a potentially fatal mistake. In allowing himself to be distracted by the goings-on before him, someone has gotten close enough to press a hypospray to his neck.

Everything goes dark before he can even turn and look at his assailant.

As his eyes roll back in his head, he says a desperate prayer.

"Mercy, Founders..."

* * *

 

He is awake again. This is not a new clone body. He did not die.

 _Yet._ That could always change.

Weyoun sat still as a statue, prey instincts screaming in alarm. He is surrounded by danger. Running is not an option. He is tightly bound by strong cords to a lone chair. His instincts tell him that vigilance and skill will be the only way to survive

The only person in the room with him is Keevan. No, his instincts do not lie.

He keeps his eyes closed. Better that he look bored or dismissive than to let his eyes telegraph his fear. His ears trace the soft footsteps of the other Vorta as he circles slowly around him. Blood in the water, he thinks. How appropriate for a predator on the hunt.

“Weyoun, it’s been so long. I was beginning to think that you’ve forgotten about me. I’ve been away too long,”

Weyoun opens his eyes at that, only offering him a placid smile. As if he is at ease and he has met a long-lost friend. It is dissonant with his frenetic nerves. The clash is disturbing.

“Forget you? Certainly not. I confess, I didn’t think that we had that close of a relationship…but we are certainly not enemies, Keevan.”

“Oh, I don’t know that. You don’t either. But I think that we are about to find out,” Keevan says, the shadow of a smirk coloring his lips. He draws closer, now orbiting Weyoun close enough for him to feel his body heat in this cold, dark room. “In fact, by the time we’re done here, I think our relationship will be quite different.”

Keevan’s hands are on his face suddenly, impossibly large, skin soft and cool. His hands wrap around most of Weyoun’s head and his paranoid mind entertains the absurd thought of his head being crushed like a melon. Keevan does not press, his touch only lingers, caging his face in bars of bone and flesh, fixing his gaze so that he can look on nothing else but him.

“Perhaps,” Weyoun answers evasively. It is the only way he can evade him now.

“I don’t think you’ve been honest with me,” Keevan whispered in Weyoun’s ear, his right hand ghosting down to lightly skim the hairline scar that served as the last reminder of Weyoun’s termination implant. The skittering touch was so light that Weyoun’s arms broke out in goosebumps. He could feel his warm breath wash over the sensitive ridges of his ears, slightly stirring the wispy hairs on the nape of his neck.

“You didn’t think I noticed this, did you? What self-respecting, loyal, pious Vorta would choose to have that implant removed?”

Keevan continued to whisper as his hands started to wander, moving lightly across Weyoun’s temples, brushing softly into his hair as he traced a path down the ridges of his ears, drawing down the sharp line of his mandible back down to that forbidden scar.

“Imagine my surprise to see this on you! The Prodigal Son, the golden Vorta, the perfect servant. Why would flawless Weyoun, trusted above all by our founders, have that scar? He must have something to hide…“

Keevan’s soft hands came to rest softly over Weyoun’s ears, his sensitive hearing homing in on the rush of blood and the heartbeat roaring in his ears. He can hear the slight friction of skin on skin as his hands pull away. Despite himself, a pleasurable tingle breaks out across the back of his neck, washing upward over the back of his skull and down into his shoulders, lancing down his spine. Keevan grins.

Keevan’s sibilant whisper continues to haunt him. “Imagine my surprise to find that nobody was talking about you. That ‘Weyoun’ is as respected a name right now as it’s ever been. No records exist of _you_. Almost as if you had died and had been erased from memory…and the Dominion was all the happier for it.”

Weyoun's face is a stoic mask. He refuses to respond to that. What cares had he for their remembrance? He was happy enough to forget them.

“Yet I find that you’re still here. Still kicking. And I know what you are. _Defective–_ ”

Weyoun jolts at that. “I’m _not_ defective,” he protests, his eyes defiant. “The difference is that I’m no longer blind. To the Founders, sight is sin. What is it that you want from me, Keevan? I have nothing to give you!”

“Come now, calm down. You don’t even know what I want yet. I merely said that you were defective. Did I say that was a _bad_ thing? I think not.”

Keevan began walking his fingers lightly down the line of his quarry’s spine. Weyoun’s pupils were blown wide now, his whole body washed in warmth and his diaphragm quivering as he fought for air. He broke out into a sweat. His distress clashed with the pleasure, a chaotic, explosive mixture of pain and fear and need he couldn’t temper. He did not understand. These were the barest of touches. How could they be eliciting such a powerful response?

Again, Keevan breathes into his ear, hot and humid and gusty. “I can recognize the value of a good defect. All sorts of things in that head, waiting to be set free. Think about it. You? Me? Weyoun, we can do _beautiful_ things together.”

Weyoun shivered. He felt like an insect snarled in a tangled web.

"How do you feel about burning down the Dominion, Golden Boy? It doesn’t take much to get a fire going,” Keevan hisses. “Doesn’t take much to fan the flames. You and I could do a lot of damage together.”

Keevan smiles at him again in the low light. It isn’t friendly. Weyoun half-expects him to lunge for his throat, to lunge for the clasps of his jacket.

His hands are still bound. The devil stands before him, attempting to seduce him into some darker plot. He can do nothing but wait.

He wants to say no.

He wants to say yes.

Weyoun swallows as he meets the eyes of his captor, inscrutable, unflinching, piercing. He shivers again, whether it is from the cold air or from the electric tension, he cannot say.

Predators, indeed.

"Take the evening, Weyoun. Tell me what you think. If you meet me at Quark's tomorrow afternoon, I know that you accept. If not...well, that _would_ be a shame wouldn't it? But something tells me that you're going to be there."

"Such arrogance," Weyoun hissed.

"Perhaps. Have you ever known me to be anything but?"

Keevan's hands drop to the cords that tie Weyoun's wrists to the cold metal frame of the chair, pulling gently to undo the slipknot. "All I ask is that you think about it."

The knot is loose. He can feel the prickly tingle as the blood returns to his hands again.

His hands are free, but Weyoun doesn't move. He challenges the taller, larger Vorta with his eyes. This is his home, his refuge. He would not gift Keevan with the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

 A minute passes as they warily watch each other, Weyoun with a glacial expression and Keevan staring back with his ever-present boredom. It was a contest to see who would yield first. Weyoun may not have been bred for war, but his determination could be a fearsome thing in itself. Keevan snorts, turning away first.

He leaves the door open after him.

Several minutes pass before he rises to exit.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fire Pages" by Carl Sandburg


End file.
